Down Once More
by Loreyulia
Summary: There was Sherlock, bringer of life to the inhabitants of London Below- one of three who possess particular powers of Fate. Then there was John, hapless bystander who gets swallowed up into the rift between the two London's- falling through the cracks. Sherlock has vowed to help him find his way home, by way of the Lady Door. If only The Web would leave them alone to do so...
1. Chapter One: World's Collide

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Neverwhere: those rights belong to the respective owners. **_

_**A/N: Hello! Welcome to my newest project, a cross over between BBC's Sherlock and Neil Gaiman's wonderful novel Neverwhere. There will also be a lot of original ideas of mine added in, such as the mysterious organization known as The Web, and the powers of the three Holmes brother's. I won't spoil too much now, but if you do have some confusion in parts, I promise to clear up stuff in the story as soon as I can. Please enjoy, and drop a review if you like what you read. Cheers! **_

Down Once More

Chapter One: World's Collide

**Wind's in the East, mist comin' in **

**Like some thin' is brewin' and 'bout **

**to begin **

**Can't put me finger on what lies in **

**store **

**But I feel what's to happen all **

**happened before. **

_"I 'eard they was after ya', Mister 'olmes– y'know, The Web." _

_The man's scratchy, mothball voice echoed along the wet walls even as he whispered to the whip thin shadow that was cast by ruddy candlelight; flickering and dancing where the walls oozed some thing green, and slimy. There was a faint __**drip-drip-drop **__sound in the distance– broken pipes leaking into the quagmire of the sewers. _

_"Do you think they know where I am?" _

_His voice, deep and sonorous, held a hint of desperation– barely discernable unless you knew him as well as Wiggins did. The man in question shrugged, his deep-set eyes tracing the frantic dance of his employer's shadow as he paced through the water around their ankles; sloshing and rippling it just enough to make a whisper of sound. _

_"I'm not sure, sir... but, if'n I was you, I'd not be stayin' in one place fer too long. Gets dangerous." _

_The light sputtered and wavered on the brink of existence, as the shadow stilled. He emitted a weary sigh, fingers idly caressing some thing in the depths of his coat pocket. After a beat of silence, the shadow resumed its frantic movement while he replied, _

_"Then I shan't dally here much longer..." he drew in a sharp breath and added begrudgingly, "and thank you, for informing me. You must have given up some thing quite valuable, to gain information like that." _

_Wiggins smiled sheepishly, ducking his head and scratching idly at a dry spot behind his ear. "Twas merely my duty, sir– tis always an honour to serve." He looked up, eager for his Master's praise— only to find he was now quite alone. _

—

John Watson vacantly stared out into the black abyss; watched as the lights burst into life and died just as quickly– like falling stars. He sat amongst the morning crowd on the Tube train that would spit him out a few blocks away from St. Bart's, and he pondered briefly on how his life had become so _dull_.

He wondered if it all began when he was shot, and then honourably discharged– discarded back out into a life that no longer suited him... or, perhaps, his life had always been this dull, and he was too blind to see it. In the end, the _why_ and _how _did not matter. What mattered, was the empty feeling in his bones and the deep, overwhelming melancholy that had pervaded his very being– right down to the roots of his soul.

The tube slowly came to a halt, and the passengers all began milling themselves out into the world once more. John sighed, using his cane to stand, and hobbled his way after them– the static voice that intoned, "_Mind the gap,_" fading away while he integrated himself back into the masses.

—

"I see we've got a fresh one today, Molly." John smiled as he unsteadily made his way over to the young woman who jotted down her thoughts onto her ever present notebook and clipboard. She looked up after a moment, and her face brightened when she caught sight of John.

"He came in only a few minutes ago. Name's Michael Harvey, age 33– apparently he's a victim in that serial killer case that Greg is working on... he's supposed to stop by later, once I determine cause of death and the time." Molly blushed, and shyly toyed with the pen in her hand.

"Oh Molly," John sighed fondly and gave the young woman a knowing look, "you know Lestrade is separating from his wife right? You should do some thing about that age old puppy crush, and ask him out for coffee some time– heaven knows, he could be just as interested in you, as you are in him."

Molly's blush darkened and she hid her face behind her clipboard to conceal it as she mumbled, "It's not _decent_... you know, they still could work things out; and I don't want to be the 'other woman' in the picture. 'Sides, I doubt Greg even see's me like that." With that soft, and rather sad admission, she returned her attention back to the cold, lifeless body set out on the examination table.

"I... I know you're only trying to help me find happiness John– and I _really_ appreciate it." Molly exclaimed after a few moments of silence, as she catalogued the information she gleaned from examining the corpse. "But, you should focus on yourself more John– find some one or _some thing_ that makes **you** happy."

Some thing in John's expression tightened briefly, before he replaced it with an empty smile– that didn't quite reach his eyes, and made his statement of, "I am happy," sound incredibly hollow.

A no-nonsense look in place, Molly replied, "Don't think I haven't noticed the apathy in your eyes– the blankness of your smiles. No matter how you try to brush it off, reassure me that every thing is fine, I know it's really not. You're far from happy John, even if you pretend otherwise." She had placed one of her slender hands upon John's shoulder, and squeezed just once; a gentle, barely there touch.

John's throat tightened uncomfortably at her concern, and he blinked the tears that threatened to spill, away. He breathed deep, and placed his hand over Molly's. "Don't worry about me," he finally replied, voice soft and a little defeated.

She pursed her lips, obviously holding herself back from arguing the point further, and merely nodded; letting the matter drop for now, so they could focus on the task at hand.

—

"Thanks for gettin' this done so quickly, Molly."

Greg Lestrade, detective inspector down at Scotland Yard, patted the young morgue attendant on the back; his smile lop-sided and slightly roguish. John could practically _feel_ Molly melting at that...

"U-um... i-it wasn't a problem," she mumbled, casting her big, brown eyes to the floor.

Their chemistry was palpable, and it took almost all of John's military discipline, to keep his nose out of it. If he had things his way, he would have slapped the two upside the head, and ordered them to go grab coffee and _talk_. He kept his mouth tightly shut though, and pretended to be scarce as he sewed up Michael Harvey's chest after the autopsy.

Molly and Lestrade continued to chat about tox reports, and tissue damage– the two huddled together almost intimately. The adoring look in Greg's coffee hued gaze did not go unnoticed by John Watson. It made him smile, to see two of his dearest friends falling in love.

As was usual these days, however, the smile disappeared far too quickly. The little voice that hated John, whispered words that dripped with ugly, black pitch in his head. _"Look at that– they're falling for each other. Where does that leave you, then? If they start dating, they won't have any time for you... you'll be all alone again, and that thought __**terrifies**__ you– doesn't it?" _

John did not realize how much his fingers had started shaking; the scalpel slipping, and slicing open his palm. "Buggering fuck," he swore, trying to keep his voice down so as not to bother his friends– especially now that they seemed to be conversing about some thing other than corpses for once. The bright red line trailed down to his wrist, and pooled around the rubber edge of his latex glove. John watched it, numb and strangely fascinated as the sounds of wounded men screaming, echoed through his head.

"Oh John, does it hurt?" Molly's worried and urgent tone brought him back from the hell inside his mind. John blinked surreptitiously for a few seconds, before his attention turned to his friend's– troubled expressions on both their faces.

"I'm... I'm fine. I'll just go bandage this up now," he tried not to wince at the twinge of pain that set fire to his nerves, and the listlessness of his own voice. John smiled thinly when the anxious lines in Molly's and Greg's faces did not abate; before he turned, and made his way to the closest medical kit to bandage up his wound.

—

_He sucked in giant lung fulls of air while he ran– ardently trying to ignore the painful clenching in his chest as his body struggled to obtain more oxygen. Blood trickled down from the gash above his right eyebrow, and it stung some thing fierce as it dribbled into his eye. His worn, leather shoes made dull squelching noises as he waded through the foul, slimy sewage amassed before a drain pipe. _

_"C'mon mister 'olmes, I know you must be tired by now. Why don't ye let me take care 'o ya'..." _

_"Don't antagonize him Hope, only the spider is permitted to play with flies." _

_His pursuers laughed at their little joke, the sound bouncing off the walls to echo and layer over itself until it was an unbearable jumble of noise. It made his blood run cold, especially once he realized that he had hit a dead end. _

_He pressed his shaking frame against the wall, trying to make himself blend into the darkness and shadows. The rattling wheeze of his own breathing would not still, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in an effort to cage in the sound. His eyes clenched shut, and he strained his ears to hear even the faintest whisper of sound; it was hard though, to hear anything over his pulse pounding in his ears. _

_Close by— too close, he could hear the male, Hope the woman had called him, start humming to himself. He recognized the tune, the one about a spider and a water spout; a nursery rhyme for the children who lived __**Above**__. _

_With a burst of adrenaline, his eyes opened wildly– and that's when he saw them, the metal rungs that made a make shift ladder. His gaze followed it, all the way to the top and to what he knew lay beyond. He cursed under his breath at his ill luck, but launched himself at the ladder none-the-less. In the end, there was nothing for it, not when his only choice was to go __up_.

—

The damp, frigid air settled uncomfortably in John's chest that evening. After he had witlessly sliced his hand open, Molly had refused to let him keep working until he went to go stitch it up properly. In the end he only had to use a few butterfly stitches and some bandage gauze to stop the bleeding, but Molly deemed him ill enough to go home, and get some rest. He was indignant at first, until he caught sight of his pale, pinched pallor in the overhead mirror.

The bags under his eyes were rather heavy, and his whole demeanor seemed wane; like a gust of too-strong air could knock him to pieces. With a brief embrace for both, and shaky goodbye's, John left Molly and Greg to their own devices, and decided to go grab a bite to eat.

After he finished his spaghetti at Angelo's, John went for a walk through the empty London streets; cane always at his side to help guide him along. The nasty weather cast a sluggish grey hue over everything, and it was why– John supposed– that he was the only one out at this late hour.

The wet chill was starting to make his left shoulder ache, and he grimaced at how weak his body had become after the war. In fact, John had half a mind to quit being stubborn, and board the nearest tube train home— when the distressed sound of a man shouting, caught his attention. He looked around frantically for the source of the noise– and then, through the hazy fog that had begun to set in he saw a tall, lean figure dash unsteadily through the line of trees in the nearby park; two silhouettes following close behind.

He stood rooted to his spot on the pavement for a moment, his hot blooded and courageous side warring with the dark voice that murmured, "_What do you think __you__ could do, hm? You're broken... you're not worth what you once were..._"

John cursed, and shoved those thoughts aside as he started limping as fast as he could toward the man who might very well be in trouble. Another deep, panicked cry rang out, making John break out into a slow run.

The moment he burst forth through the line of hedges and trees, John witnessed the rather tall man getting a tire iron smashed into his knee. The man roared in absolute agony, before he fell to his knees, and then rolled out of the way as the short, middle aged assailant swung the tire iron at his head.

"Be _careful_ Hope, we want him alive, remember?" A soft, accented voice hissed nearby, drawing John's attention to the other attacker. She had not moved yet to hurt the young man, but the Asian woman did have what looked to be a dagger, in her hand.

"I'm just 'avin a bit 'o fun," the man replied, swinging his weapon toward his prey with a manic gleam in his eyes; only to miss again, because the young man rolled to the side just in time. " 'old still ya' wee bugger, I needs to brain ya'!"

"What the bloody _hell_ do you think you're doing?!" John screamed, finally alerting the three to his presence. He was sprinting forward now, cane in his hand and ready to be used to defend himself if necessary.

The man and the woman shared a confused glance. "He _notices_ us..." the woman finally murmured to her partner, and he gave John an intensely puzzled frown.

"DON'T!" The desperate, and shouted plea stopped John in his tracks, and he looked over at the young man; confused and panting. "Please... just turn around, and go home– I promise, you'll forget that you ever witnessed this."

The man that the Asian woman had called 'Hope' sneered, grabbing his prey by his dark, greasy curls and tugged sharply. "Ye should listen to 'im, one who resides Above— unless ya' fancy yerself a life of pain and misery."

"Let him go!" John snarled, and stepped forward; menacingly holding his cane like he would a sword. His focus shifted between the Asian woman garbed all in black, to the shabby man who looked like a penniless cabbie– and it finally rested on a young, pale face; the man's brightly colored eyes silently willing John to just run away. His own eyes flicked back to Hope and his lip curled back into a fearsome sneer as he growled out once more, " I said, let. Him. GO!"

Hope barked out a laugh, and nodded to his partner. "Go ahead Shan, kill 'im." Quick as a flash, and with a sadistic smile twisting her lipsticked mouth, the woman named Shan slashed out with her jade handled dagger.

Surprise filled her eyes, when instead of sinking into warm, yielding flesh– her knife blade scraped along the metal of John's cane. She lashed out again, only to receive the same result, and a sharp smack from the end of the cane right in her side. Shan's smile fell into a pained grimace as she spat out, "Looks like the Upworlder has good reflexes."

John's face screwed up in confusion, her words not quite sitting right with him. He side stepped an arcing slash meant to cut his side open, and then back pedaled when she pressed her advantage. The fleeting impression of 'how the hell did I get myself into this?' rattled around in his head, but he did not have the time to really think on that, when he was fighting for his and a stranger's lives.

"Ye lil' prick!" John heard Hope roar, and he narrowly missed getting stabbed in the throat, when he looked over his shoulder to see the young man punch his attacker in the face– breaking his nose it seemed, on account of all the blood.

Shan looked over as well, and John took the woman's moment of weakness to his advantage by bringing his cane down hard enough against her wrist to possibly break it. She howled in pain, dropping her jade-handled dagger out of reflex— and John instantly dove for it.

However incapacitated she seemed, Shan was hot on John's heels, diving after her weapon as well; which led them into an all out grapple in the wet grass, and mud. They rolled, kicked and even bit to gain the upper hand– fingers constantly scrabbling for the dagger's handle. After what seemed like an eternity, John's numb fingers finally closed around the cold handle, and he lashed out with abandon; slicing a nice, clean gash against the woman's cheek.

John scrambled up onto his feet, righting himself quickly and holding the dagger out in case she tried to come at him again, regardless of being unarmed now. Her fingers curled against her cheek, the dark red blood staining her pale skin as she shook with rage.

He allowed himself to look over and see how the young man was faring, and his eyes widened in horror. Before he could scream, or do any thing really, Hope swung the tire iron at his head.

John fell to the ground, his eye sight going fuzzy and the blood rushing through his ears too loud to hear over. The pain radiating through his skull was unbearable– unlike anything he had ever felt before, and he had been shot in the shoulder.

While his vision swam, and his head throbbed, John blearily focused on the face loomed above his. Eyes that shifted from blue, to green and held hints of gold, studied him with unreserved pity. "I'm sorry," the man murmured, his hand pulling some thing from the depths of his navy blue coat pocket.

Before he succumbed to oblivion, John Watson registered cold fingers prying the dagger from his hand and then, there was nothing.

_**~T.B.C.~ **_

_**E/N: well, there's chapter one. I really hope you all enjoyed my take on things. I can't really say too much without spoiling stuff, so ttfn! **_

_**Story Notes: **_

–_**The excerpt at the beginning is from the movie Mary Poppins (though admittedly after watching Saving Mr. Banks, I always hear it in Colin Farell's beautiful voice...). I feel like it sets the tone perfectly, for what I have planned for this story. Plus, Neil Gaiman always puts excerpts of poetry or a quote before his novels, and I thought it would set the tone nicely in that regard as well. **_

– _**John works at Bart's in the morgue because I wanted him to be friends with Molly and Greg; but without Sherlock living in London Above, they normally would have never met. I like to think with his medical knowledge, John would make a great Coroner. **_

– _**Jeffrey Hope and General Shan are our two antagonists who work for the organization known as, 'The Web.' **_


	2. Chapter Two: London Below

Down Once More

Chapter 2: London Below

There was darkness, quiet and absolute. It covered John in its all encompassing blanket; a shroud woven of blissful ignorance and nothingness. Through the dark haze, however; a small pin-prick of golden light shone through– like a solitary star, struggling to be seen against the murky, indigo sky.

A woman's voice, hushed in a gentle murmur, caressed his senses; tugging him further toward the light. The more he drug himself out of the confusing quagmire of unconsciousness, the more he became aware of the dull throbbing pain that bounced around his skull.

"—lock, what have you got yourself into _this_ time? It's all well and good, going around and attracting all sorts of trouble for yourself, but to involve one of the Upworlder's! Poor lad... frightful head wound that is. Though, I'm sure once he wakes, he'll wish he hadn't." The woman's warm, slightly stern voice held notes of unmistakable remorse at the end– John still not fully able to comprehend where he was, who he was with, or why his head _hurt_ so damn much.

Another voice responded, full of gravel and grit, and obviously incensed. "I had no other choice! If I had left him there, they would have _killed_ him– and I... I could not bring myself to abandon him to that fate, even if it would have proven far kinder to do so."

John could barely follow the course of the whispered conversation– even though he desperately tried to tie the threads together into a cohesive tapestry of thought, and reason. With a pained groan, he jerked his head up, only to realize too late how stupid that decision had been. His vision swam when he opened his eyes, and the pounding pressure in his head only intensified– he was almost positive he was going to be sick...

"Oh dear, he looks pale as death!" The woman exclaimed in what John could only describe as caring exasperation. His skewed eyesight made it seem like she was teetering toward him in some oddly performed sort of dance, and John chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all. "Sherlock," she trailed off, apparent concern lacing her tone. "How hard did that dastard hit the poor sod? He seems a bit knoddy in the head..."

John's focus finally aligned itself, and he squinted up at the old woman hovering above him. Her hair was shortly cropped, and ashy brown. She had pale skin, with freckles and wrinkles aplenty dotting her flesh like lines across a tube map. Warm, sepia eyes studied him, and her lips wavered some where between a smile and some thing else decidedly sad.

"Where– w-where am I?" John questioned haltingly— the words difficult to grasp and intone. It was rather hard to speak, when thoughts melted away like snowflakes upon warm skin.

Gentle fingers prodded at the side of his head, and with a sharp _hiss_ of pain, John jerked away from the feather light touch. "Don't worry dear," the old lady crooned, too much sadness and regret gnawing away at the warmth in her gaze. "Just stay still, and I'll go fetch some thing for that nasty bump you've got there." John nodded absently, trying to remember if she had answered his question or not. She smiled shakily, and tottered off God knows where.

John wanted to close his eyes, and go back to sleep; maybe wake up in his single bed, shaken from another nightmare that had felt far too real...

The light rumble of a man clearing his throat shattered what little illusion of normalcy he had tried to conjure. John's attention was instantly pulled to the source of the noise. He wished, too late, that he would not have looked.

With out a doubt, the younger man leaning casually against the door frame that seemed to lead into a kitchen, was the same one he had met in the park.

He was tall, and lean; with alabaster skin, that seemed to glow in the murky light. The man's face was sharp, and almost alien in its ethereal uniqueness. Cheekbones sculpted keenly, of the finest milky marble– lips so perfectly crafted, they could have belonged to Eros himself. He had thick, riotous curls that, beneath all the grease and grime, were the rich shade of dark chocolate. However, John recalled that the stranger's eyes were his most enchanting feature of all; ever changing eyes, that had captured a tropical sea within their crystalline depths.

All-in-all, the man was exquisite– and it made John feel intensely uncomfortable. Men like himself, did not simply associate with Greek Gods come to life on a regular basis.

"I told you to run, you know... you _really_ should have listened." The man's deep, silky voice startled him after so many minutes spent in silence, as they studied one another. John cradled his heavy head upon one open palm, and gave the stranger a wry smile.

" 's alright, I've suffered through far worse than this." John absentmindedly touched his left shoulder, right over the spider-web of scar tissue he knew that lay beneath the bulky layers of his clothing. The man's gaze followed his movement, and he frowned; an expression that John could not name, flitting across his aristocratic face.

He pushed off of the door frame, and strode over to John– all elegantly long limbs, and cat-like grace. John was rather startled though, when the man knelt down before his prone position on the couch; a calloused thumb rubbing briefly below his right eye. The man seemed to study his features curiously for a moment– that familiar look of pity haunting his gaze. "I really do wish you would have run..." the words were whispered now, in a kind of tone one would expect from a person offering their condolences at a funeral.

John's temper was dangerously spiking toward the realm of 'not good'. "Why the _hell_ do you keep saying that? It's not like they mortally wounded me or anything– I should be fine, if I take it easy for a few days."

Quick as a whip, and tone flat now the man replied, "I'm afraid you do not have that kind of luxury any longer, Upworlder."

_That phrase... _John thought to himself, his brow knitting itself together as he racked his muddled mind– he had heard it before. "That... that Asian woman, Shan was it? She called me that as well... what does it mean? Why am I being treated as if... as if I _died_ or some thing?"

The man's cyan eyes roved back and forth, and he bit his plump lower lip harshly; until the blood drained, and the healthy pink color dissolved into a pasty white. He seemed to wage a war with himself, and John realized then, that maybe he had landed himself some where far out of his depth. "Oh God," John murmured, "please tell me I didn't get _involved_ in some thing I shouldn't..."

"I'm afraid to inform you, that you have– though I'm sure what I am about to tell you, is a truth far beyond the realm of possibility that you once perceived." The man paused, seemed to wait for John to butt in with questions or accusations– when he merely nodded, indicating the stranger to continue, he smiled slightly to himself.

The man cocked his head to the side, and seemed to contemplate his words, before he spoke. "Have you ever walked the London streets, minding your own businesses, thinking about that homeless person you just passed and how, maybe, you should have given them _some thing_? So, you turn around, loose change at the ready– only to find that they are no where to be seen. You probably stand there for a few moments, looking foolish as you crane your neck around in search of the poor soul in need of your pocket change; but then you shrug, and move on with your day– and you don't think on it again, until the next time."

"Well, um yeah–" John replied, looking rather confused. "I mean, haven't we all? Still, I fail to see what this has to do with me..."

"Oh, it has _every thing_ to do with you," the stranger exclaimed, an odd and excited sort of fire rippling through his intense gaze. "You see, these are the people who have fallen through the cracks– the forgotten. They are the residents of a London that no one remembers, a London Below.

"Beneath the city, in the sewers and abandoned railways– in the deep, dark crevices of this metropolis; there exists another world. A world where impossible and fantastical things are the norm, where ancient civilizations co-mingle with the modern age. A world, that you now belong to."

John regarded the stranger, taking in the serious angles of his face– the diamond hardness of his unwavering gaze. He wanted so _desperately_ to believe that this man wasn't crazy, or being an utter cock by teasing him with some outlandish story... but, what he had just said, about another world existing below London— why, it was complete bollocks!

"Look," he gave the man a no-nonsense scowl, "if this is some clotheads idea of a joke, I will admit, it's in poor taste. Did Greg put you up to this, or was it Mike?"

The man sighed, his lips pursing in agitation as he looked away. "Fine," he snapped at John, "you can choose not to believe me. Whole lot of good it will do you, once you try to make your way back home. If you even make it that far, and I seriously doubt you will, there will be nothing waiting for you. The moment you chose to help me when those two attacked, you sealed your fate.

"Now, you belong to the Underside– you no longer exist in the world Above. You can obviously decide not to believe me, but right now I am all you have; and I for one, intend to find a way to fix this."

"Stop this," John barked out, glowering at the man kneeled before him. "This is going too far– I don't know what's going on, or why you won't just give up this silly charade; but I've had _**enough**_. Now, you're going to tell me who you are, and why you're doing this– or so help me God, I will hurt you..."

The stranger scoffed at John, a sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. "I would _really_ like to see you try, Upworlder." He stood then, and peered down at John with an expression filled with flinty ice, and contempt. "I will give you fair warning though, even among those who reside Below, I am old beyond measure– I have seen hundred's of your life times, and I've spent my time learning all I can about both our worlds. And some of that knowledge includes how to kill some one, merely by pinching them in the right place."

They were at an impasse, a stale mate laden with petulant scowls and intense glaring. "Oh for pity's sake," the gentle, admonishing tone came from the older woman who had tittered around John only minutes before. "Sherlock, the poor lad's had quite the scare– leave him be for now, and we'll get this all sorted as soon as we take care of that nasty bump, and have had a spot of tea." She came tottering back into the room, carrying a stone basin, a white linen, and a clay pot.

It was then John really observed his unwitting hostess, _really_ observed her that is– and saw what she was wearing. Her petite frame was draped in a deep plum colored chiton that fell in graceful folds down to her ankles. A pair of sensible black heels and sheer stockings adorned her lower half– the mixture of ancient and modern so absurd that it was charming. She had minimal make up on, and only a few adornments. A pair of pearl drop earrings, golden bangles on one arm, and a white oleander fastened at her shoulder, to keep the chiton in place.

"Don't worry dearie," she hummed, setting the stone basin at John's feet with some difficulty, "I'll get you all patched up in a jiffy." She sat down on the couch next to him, and soaked the linen in the water; and he watched as the steam curled upward indicating the water to be warm. With a motherly tenderness, she pressed the wet cloth to John's head, and slowly cleaned away the caked on blood that had dried there.

It stung a bit, and he fought the urge to pull away. The woman carried on though, muttering to herself about irresponsible behaviour and repercussions; and she shot the lanky man at her side a stern scowl. John tried to ignore the fact that the insufferable stranger actually looked _sheepish_ when the woman lectured him with all the authority of a beloved mother. "Um– that's an interesting pendant you have." He exclaimed, not really knowing what else to say after every thing.

"Oh, this old thing? I've had it for years– got it at a Floating Market when I was younger. The woman who sold it to me had me pay with my long, beautiful tresses of hair– never have been able to grow it back... I'm quite sure she actually came from over The Wall, but that's another story entirely."

"Ah, right..." John mumbled, none of the woman's words making any sense to him what so ever. After that, there was silence as the woman wiped up the last of the blood. She then dipped her fingers into the clay pot, and brought them back out; coated in a viscous honey colored paste. Before John could ask her what the hell it was, she smoothed the mixture softly over his head wound.

The relief he felt was almost instantaneous! A cool, tingling sensation spread across his skin– a refreshing balm that soothed the ache. "There," she said after she was done, "you'll be right as rain in no time. Earl Grey or Peppermint?" She stood, gathering all her things and smiled warmly at John.

"Ah, erm– Earl Grey?" She had a brusqueness to her that left John in a tizzy.

The woman nodded, and made her way toward the kitchen– calling over her shoulder before she could pop out of sight, "And dearie, you can call me Mrs. Hudson– every one else seems to at any rate."

John just nodded weakly in return, all of the excitement and turmoil of the last few hours, draining him. The strange man at his side followed Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen after a few awkward moments spent in silence; and shortly after, John could catch smatterings of a whispered conversation between them. He tuned most of it out, only catching snitbits; some thing about a Door and how to find it.

Being all alone in the room gave him some time, and some thing to do– so he studied it with an ambivalent eye. The lighting in the place was murky at best; candles lit, and gas lamps sputtering to hang onto life interspersed through out the room. A few feet away from the couch that John still occupied, an old sort of coffee table sat; covered with yellowed news papers faded from age–the ink practically smudged away on some. Battered, dog eared novels, and the occasional empty tea cup that had gathered a fine layer of dust.

There were an obscene amount of bookshelves, crammed to about bursting with novels, encyclopedias, any manner of informational guides it seemed. Across the way sat two armchairs. One a washed out red, that was plush looking for how ancient it seemed, and the other a slate blue; very sheik and modern. Just beyond the two arm chairs, a crackling fire danced behind a cast iron grate, the mantle above a deep chocolate brown wood. All sorts of odd knick-knacks rested on the mantle, a veritable treasure trove of bizarre possessions; right down to the the jewel encrusted dagger that was stabbed into the surface what looked like in repeated fashions and different locations, on account of all the random gouges in the wood.

Parallel to the armchairs, there was a shabby dining set that seated four– with only three chairs around it, and a work desk was shoe-horned in some where behind. A cow skull hung up on the wall above the desk, the bone tarnished a macabre brown color from age; and oddly enough, there were a big pair of 80's style head phones slung over the top of the skulls cranium. To the left, a full length window stretched upwards– giving view to total, pitch black nothingness. It was, quite honestly the most normal, out of place thing in the entire room.

Even more strange than the wallpaper bedecking the walls, all of varied patterns and styles, the weathering speaking of different eras when it had been applied. The lone window was adorned with the drabbest, most boring curtains John had ever seen– but the ominous blackness that creeped behind the panes of glass terrified him. Simply put, it unnerved him because it was so _unnatural. _

"Here we are," Mrs. Hudson said, setting a tarnished silver tray upon the newspapers on the coffee table. Three tea cups and saucers, a tea pot, and a bowl of sugar were placed carefully upon the tray. "Sorry there isn't any cream– rather rare to come by stuff like that down here, even for us."

"No– um, no it's fine really." John quickly supplied, not wanting the woman to feel bad, especially after all the kindness, and hospitality she had already given him. His attention was pulled away from her, however; by the lanky stranger dragging the red chair over to the table– and then, quite abruptly he moved over to where John was, and shoved his outstretched legs off of the couch, and sat beside him.

The man, completely ignorant of his rather rude behaviour, started spooning sugar into one of the tea cups; the faint clinking of a spoon knocking against china as he stirred his tea, ringing in the silence. "Might as well sit down Mrs. Hudson, after all the trouble of me moving that here for you. This conversation will most likely take quite some time, and I shall need your assistance translating what I'll have to say in terms that this narrow minded Upworlder might understand."

Offended, John opened his mouth to retort quite loudly; but Mrs. Hudson beat him to it. "Sherlock Holmes, you watch your tongue! You were just as responsible for getting the lad mixed up in all this, as he was. I don't want to hear you speak like that to him again, do you hear me?"

Sherlock, John finally gathered, was the man's name– and an odd name it was, but he chose not to dwell too much on that. He dwelled instead, upon how the mans teeth sunk into his pillowy bottom lip– biting back a response, and merely grunted while looking away shamefully. Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock one last stern scowl, before her face brightened as she turned her attention to John. "Make sure to drink your tea, before it goes cold dear."

And so, John did just that.

–

The three of them had sat in silence for a while, each one deep in their own contemplations, and tea. Mrs. Hudson was the first to break the metaphorical ice. "So, before we begin with this whole mess– might I ask you your name, dear?"

"Um, yeah... of course," John blinked owlishly, because he had entangled himself so deep in thought, and with watching the wispy tendrils of steam curl through intricate waltzes; he almost forgot where he was. "John– John Watson, if you wanted to know in full."

"That's a lovely name," Mrs. Hudson beamed, and Sherlock snorted derisively; seeming to grow tired of niceties. He was sprawled out quite sinuously, his long midnight colored coat discarded at some point; leaving him in a royal purple shirt, that had ruffled lace edging his throat and wrist cuffs. His lanky legs were covered in dark leather breeches, the kind you might find on some swashbuckling pirate of yore, but his shoes looked like plain, black square toed loafers. So, John's face screwed up in thought; Belstaff, Edwardian style shirt, pirate trousers, and average modern day gentleman shoes... either these two people were eccentric stage actors, or they were off their heads. He seriously hoped it was the former...

After they were all acquainted, Mrs. Hudson began in a calm, motherly fashion to tell John just how royally buggered he was. She spoke of how the inhabitants of London Below co-habitated this city with the one's who lived Above. How their two world's touched, and mingled, but stayed separate. That whenever one of the Upworlder's became aware of one of _them_, usually they forgot about it within mere minutes; but, on rare occasions they would get drawn in too deep– and that's when they fell through the cracks, becoming one with the Underside.

She talked about it all with such sincerity, that it almost made John believe her. That there really was a fantastical realm lurking below the world he knew so intimately. In the end though, he shook his head and made it clear that he did not buy into this ludicrous tale; no matter how well crafted it was.

Mrs. Hudson gazed at him with absolute pity in her eyes, but nodded and left it at that; getting up with a bit of difficulty, and made her way towards a door not far from the right side of the couch. "I'll leave you to think it over, dear. Get some rest, you'll need it for the days to come." With that, she left, making her way down a set of stairs it sounded like, and into another room; a door shutting softly in the distance.

Sherlock sat and stared at him for quite some time after she left; his cyan eyes observing John with an excruciating amount of intensity. Then, it seemed like he had found exactly what he was looking for in the lines of John's weary features; for he stood abruptly and announced, "Sooner or later you will believe. For now, I leave you to your ignorance."

He brushed about after that, blowing out candles and shutting off the gas lamps; until only the fire that writhed behind cast iron bars illuminated the room. Sherlock gave John one last resigned sort of grimace, before he disappeared into his own room most likely.

It left John, cold and alone on a stranger's couch, in a room with a window that looked out onto nothing; and for the first time since he was a young boy, he prayed. He prayed that when he awoke, he would be home– and as boring as it was, and utterly devoid of real happiness– he would never take his life for granted again.

_**E/N: **_

_**Mrs. Hudson's Oleandar pendant: if you're a Neil Gaiman fan, then you might recognize this subtle nod to Stardust. I find it rather plausible that these worlds could exist in the same universe, so I took some more creative license. **_

_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you all soon. :) **_


	3. Chapter Three: We Have an Accord

**Down Once More **

**Chapter Three: We have an Accord**

_A voice echoed all around, hushed to a whisper; like wind swaying the leaves of a tree. I strained my ears to listen, but no matter how hard I tried, the voice kept growing fainter and fainter... until it was naught but a half remembered dream. I went to move, to run after the retreating voice, but my legs would not heed me. Paralyzed, I looked around frantically; fear slowly creeping in. _

_All around me, shadows writhed and twisted into grotesque shapes; separated only by a thin pane of glass. Beyond the realm of me, and the other side, a silvery thread began to spin. It twirled and contorted, weaving into an iridescent tapestry. I began to realize, with increasing horror, that it was a web... and where webs resided, spiders were sure to follow. _

_The shadows began to convulse, dancing with an increasing frenzy behind the window. Then, the scuttling sound of too many legs bled through. A scream died in my throat, refusing to bubble past the terror already lodged there. My legs jerked, the muscles spasming in confusion as my fight or flight reflexes were forced to be ignored. No matter how I tried, I could not __move!_

_The scuffling, clacking noises intensified; like a thousand spiders where all charging toward me at once. It crescendoed and pulsed, a mad chant made of nightmares and darkness. At the zenith of sound, eight beady eyes appeared, black and oily through the window. They blinked, one by one; and opened to reveal flat, obsidian orbs– all gazing hungrily at me. _

_The giant spider opened its great, gaping maw; venom dripping from its fangs as it rushed forward. I was frozen in fear, as the mighty fiend slammed its body against the window. The glass shattered. Diamond shards scattered to the air, and the shadows rushed in. _

_Before I could scream, the darkness took me— _

John awoke with a violent shout, his heart hammering hard in his chest, his breathing wild, and frantic. He sat up, shaking and dimly aware that his clammy skin was drenched in sweat. As the blood-rush in his ears died down slowly, John picked out a trembling cry piercing the air. The wobbling vibrato of bow gliding over strings preluded the deep, aching pain the Violin expressed. It was an oddly old sort of melody, like a song that had been passed down through centuries of musical ingenuity.

With a start, John realized his lap was covered by the thick, wool Belstaff Sherlock had discarded earlier; a makeshift blanket to ward off the chill. The gesture was oddly touching, coming from a man who had brushed him aside with cool indifference not mere hours ago.

The room was still swathed in shadows, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. John's gaze was slowly drawn to the window, like a magnet finding its polar opposite to pull it along. The dark void still moved beyond the panes of glass; empty and as devoid of color as the black holes in space. Sherlock stood before the window, back to John–his neck a warm cradle for the Violin, his cheek pressed to it intimately, like an old lover. His other arm brought the bow so gracefully across the strings; and the sound it created made John practically tremble with emotion.

A powder blue, silk Kimono hung off of the willowy mans shoulders; the soft hue a decadent contrast to his lush, pale skin. John had a perfect view of Sherlock's creamy throat– those riotous, rich curls caressing high cheek bones as he swayed to the music he created. The melody shifted subtly– transforming from a melancholy yearning, into a tender movement; the shyness before a first kiss, John felt.

"Are you calm now?" Sherlock's baritone melded so seemlessly with the gentle vibrato; two halves of a musical whole. He didn't stop, did not turn to look at John as he continued to play his Violin at God knew what hour of the day it was. The preternatural darkness made it hard to gauge time in normal fashion. John looked absently to his wrist watch, and frowned. _Odd..._ it seemed the battery had run dry, the clock face empty as the world beyond that window.

"Um, err... yeah. I-I'm fine now," John replied, distantly aware that he had been asked a question over his well being. "Night terrors, used to them by now."

"War does that to people..." was whispered by the enigmatic stranger so softly, John almost didn't catch it over the primal sob of the strings.

It was a statement John had to process for a good minute. "Wait a minu— how the hell do you know if I have seen combat, or not?" He paused, gave the stranger a peculiar look, before he trudged on. "If you really are, as you proclaimed, a 'denizen of a London Below' then where did you get that sort of information on me? I suppose a little birdy just told you."

The bow came to an abrupt stop; a staccato punctuation to John's statement. With a graceful poise not known to a simple man like John, Sherlock turned and regarded him with his ethereal gaze–the blue-green flashing like silver crescent moons against the dark. "I merely observed you. One does not live as long as I have, without gaining intimate knowledge regarding the human psyche and behavioral patterns."

Disbelief was written clear as a cloudless summer day upon John's open features, and he snorted derisively. "I highly doubt you actually figured that all out on your own."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed just a fraction, and he stepped closer; the powder blue silk fluttering about him like gentle waves lapping at the sandy beach of his bare ankles. "Skin tone can tell a lot about a person; and not just ethnicity, possible cultural back ground. For instance, what little patch of skin I saw of your chest when you slept was quite pale; but your face, your neck and hands are all kissed by a sun that glows far brighter than the one in our fair London.

"Then, there is the matter of posture. Even while sitting, your back stays ramrod straight– proud, and disciplined. You look directly into the eyes of those who speak to you, all the markings of a soldier. Now, take into consideration that upon waking up and during our first formal conversation, you revealed to me that you have 'seen far worse' than what we went through in the park."

Sherlock was pacing now, his eyes burning with a manic fire John could not quite comprehend, but found it oddly difficult to look away from. "Your left hand has an intermittent tremor, most likely due to the stress your body goes through since you were injured. And yes, the limp is obviously psychosomatic– otherwise you would not have easily wielded your cane for any thing other than an instrument with which to aid your mobile functions.

"Now my knowledge, admittedly broader than most in London Below, is still very limited in the workings of your world, but I ask you this– Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

John's head spun off its axis for a moment, the tizzying rounds of Sherlock's spit fire deductions hard to keep up with. Every one rang true though, and admittedly, John began to wonder if perhaps the man was telling the truth. Lies were never as elaborate as this... Sherlock even had methods to back up how he gleaned such knowledge by simply _looking_ at him. "Afghanistan," John murmured, quietly; the subtlest admission that perhaps, he was starting to believe.

A small smile wavered at the very corner of Sherlock's heart shaped mouth. He did not say anything more, but in that smile John could tell, the man knew he had won.

–

After their whole heated debate was dealt with, Sherlock had resumed his concerto; his audience, a very bemused John and a cow skull hanging on the wall. Some pieces that he chose to play were vaguely familiar, and others didn't even sound like songs at all– more like random saws across the strings, with a bow that had a life of its own. It was weirdly comforting, John thought; this dark room a cocoon of flickering firelight, and gentle music.

Mrs. Hudson came trooping up the stairs eventually, drawn up by the sound of Sherlock's attempt at Bach. "John dear," she cooed, as if speaking to a beloved grandson, "I hope he didn't wake you? He tends to forget other people need to sleep..."

"No, I uh– I woke up on my own. Didn't even know he was playing, until I was properly awake."

She hummed her approval, and set about bustling around the kitchen. "There isn't much," she called out, her chipper voice cutting over the Violin with ease, "but I'll get you fed up, before you two take off."

"Ta," John replied. It all felt so... _natural._ What with Mrs. Hudson humming what sounded like All you Need is Love in the Kitchen, Sherlock eventually accompanying her, and John still sat upon the couch, wrapped up in a midnight colored Belstaff.

Time went on in that fashion; Mrs. Hudson starting up new songs, and Sherlock following along to the humming, and occasional singing. John surprised himself a few times, when he absently realized his own voice joined in. The clatter in the kitchen died down, and Mrs. Hudson came shuffling into the sitting room; carrying the same silver tray from last night. Three large, mismatched bowls were handed out, and John looked skeptically at the sluggish, brown contents that vaguely reminded him of stew.

Not wanting to seem rude, he sunk his spoon in, and cautiously sampled the broth. "Mm, that's really good. What's in it?" John questioned, tucking in much more confidently now.

Mrs. Hudson wouldn't quite meet John's eyes as she replied, "It's best that you not know, dearie." Well... that was _reassuring_ John shivered; but pointedly ignored the way his stomach churned.

–

After they all had their fill of... stew, John decided to address the proverbial elephant in the room. He cleared his throat, and sweeped his gaze between his two hosts. "I'm... I'm not quite saying I fully believe you," his gaze stayed fixed upon Sherlock's bright cyan eyes now, "however, I'd have to be completely ignorant to not realize some thing about this place is definitely... _off_. I also have reason to believe that you both have little to gain, in lying to me about this whole ordeal. If.. if what all you say is true, that I've found my way into some subterranean version of London, that you may know of a way to get me back home and to my old life; how are we going to go about this?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, obviously pondering his words before he spoke them. "There is... a woman, a woman highly revered in the Underside. She is the closest thing to what you'd refer to as a Queen, that we have. She, is the Lady Door– and she is gifted with a very significant power to open doors, or portals. Not just in London Below either, her powers can affect your world as well.

"In fact, this very place was a gift from her Grandfather to me; a sanctuary where I can be safe from those who wish me harm. However, the Lady Door is not who I need to seek out concerning you."

John's face crinkled with confusion. "Then why bring her up, if she can't help me?"

"She is only half of the solution. While the Lady Door could safely deliver you Above, that does not fix the predicament that you are in entirely– you'd still be invisible to all who reside Upside. No, who you need is her Companion, Richard Mayhew. A man, who once found himself in your very same situation."

"If this Richard bloke can help me, why is he still here then?" John snapped, regretting it almost instantly– Sherlock was only trying to help after all, and he knew it was wiser not to bite a hand that was willingly feeding him.

"He did find his way back, regained his old life... he decided to come back, and stay." The blue-green verdigris of Sherlock's eyes took on a misty, far away quality. He looked in that moment so... _alone_. "I... I do not pretend to understand his decision, but I suppose his motivations were founded in sentiment."

There was silence. "So... how are we to um, to find this Lady Door and her Companion?" John ventured hesitantly, after a few minutes; letting Sherlock have his quiet contemplation.

With a start, Sherlock came back to the present– a tiny frown creasing his brow. "Therein lies the problem, my dear Upworlder. Our Lady Door has been MIA these past eight months, hair nor hide of her even glimpsed down in the Underside. And that is why, we must go to the next Floating Market– because there just might be some one there who can help me track down the Marquis. If any one knows where she's secreted herself, it'll be him."

"Alright, I trust you to get me home," John nodded, ever the dutiful soldier as he held Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock returned it, with equal intensity rippling through his ever changing eyes.

Mrs. Hudson tittered happily to herself as she exclaimed, "It's so good to see you two finally getting on. I'll go pack you boy's some food for your little journey." Her rose petal smile was bright, and exuberant as she gathered up the dirty dishes and headed back to the kitchen.

Sherlock contemplated John for a while, making him feel a little unsettled to be the orbiting focus of the man's piercing gaze. After a time, he leaned in toward John and whispered, "While I promise to do everything in my power to get you home, I shall warn you now that this venture will not be easy. This is a dark, and twisted world we tread down here; and the further I force you to unravel the secrets of the Underside, the further it sucks you in. Not to mention, I have danger of my own to contend with... what with those two scuttling about after me. Now, do you still want to follow me, even knowing the dangers that lie ahead?"

"God yes, of course!" John exclaimed, voice a little raised in his excitement. "I don't want to stay trapped here forever... I– I want my life back. I want to wake up in my crap flat, and watch my two best friends fall in love. I want London back in my lungs."

A wry smile slid across Sherlock's lips, barely noticeable; and John would not have observed it, if he had not been leaning in so close to the man. "Then I shall deliver you home, safe and sound– come hell or high water."

A swelling feeling inflated John's chest all of a sudden; and it felt suspiciously like joy or maybe gratitude. This stranger owed him nothing, regardless of this situation being a result of both of their idiocy– and yet, he was going to risk leaving the quiet sanctuary of his home to help John reclaim his. He smiled at Sherlock, bright and unguarded, and was rewarded with the man's slightly baffled expression; as if he had never seen such a facial expression directed at him. A soft blush bloomed high upon Sherlock's ridiculously sharp cheekbones, and he looked away– clearly embarrassed.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock suddenly called out, deep voice booming and slightly commanding. "Where's my skull?"

The woman in question popped her head from around the door frame. "I used it yesterday, to go visit my sister, I must have left it down in my living room." Sherlock grunted, and dashed up from his armchair in a sudden fit, to go storm down the stairs.

John chose to completely gloss over the bit about using a _skull_ to visit relatives... his eyes inevitability seeking out the tarnished cow skull already on the wall. _Must have a penchant for dead things _John shivered at the thought. Not even a minute later, heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs and Sherlock reappeared, carrying a pristine white, human skull.

"Best not to ask questions, we need to pack," Sherlock tossed over his shoulder, already sweeping his way towards what John assumed to be his room.

With soreness of cramped muscles from sleeping on a couch, and sitting around for almost 24 hours, John finally chanced standing. He was a little wary, because his cane was not there to assist him and he still wasn't sure if his legs would hold without it. But he surprised himself, when all he felt was a dull twinge for only a moment, before he took a cautious step forward.

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson, ever the dotting mother figure, came shuffling in carrying two leather knapsacks, already stuffed with food, and miscellaneous items.

"Yeah... I'm fine. Just, getting used to walking with out my cane, got a bad leg even though I was shot in the shoulder."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Hopefully Sherlock won't run you ragged, he's very spirited when the mood strikes and forgets not all of us are immortals like him."

John stopped, mouth agape. It was one thing to feed him tales of some twisted Alice and Wonderland like place under the streets of London, but now they wanted him to believe that Immortals did exist, and that Sherlock Holmes was actually one of them? That was stretching John's ability to cope with insane notions just a bit...

"What do you mean by tha–" but John never got to finish his question, because Sherlock came bustling back in, clad in his clothes from the other day– only, now he had a royal blue, silk scarf wound around his marble column of a neck.

"Is that everything?" He rumbled, snatching his Belstaff off of the couch and tugged it on hastily.

"Yes, that should about cover all you'll need," Mrs. Hudson nodded, beaming up at the vibrating excitedness Sherlock practically exuded. "Promise me you'll come home in one piece Sherlock."

The man nodded. "I shall do my best, Mrs. Hudson– ever the bastion of my well-being."

She got a little misty eyed at that, and turned to John with a watery smile. "And I hope you get your life back in order, dearie. It was a pleasure meeting such a sweet Upworlder like yourself. It... it may seem a little silly, since I just met you and all but– I hope I never forget you, and that you will remember me." Mrs. Hudson's withered hands fumbled then at the Oleander flower pinned to her peach colored chemise, and she wordlessly handed it to John.

"Many years ago, I traveled to Wall and bought this with my hair. The lady told me, it would bring me happiness with the one I was to love. I found that person, and lost him long ago– so now, I hope that it brings you the same fortune, John."

She pushed the Oleander into his hands, and he was utterly surprised to find it cool to the touch and that it was spun from glass. "I can't take this–"

"Yes you can dear, I want you to have some thing to remember an old lady by. Now don't argue, and say 'thank you Mrs. Hudson'."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John murmured, his throat feeling strangely tight with emotion. He had only known her for less than a day, but he knew that her gentle and loving kindness would leave an indelible mark upon his heart. He tucked the glass flower into the inside pocket of his army green coat and gave the woman a heartfelt smile.

Sherlock cleared his throat, subtly grabbing their attention; a bored look in place, an obvious display of his distaste of sentiment. He shouldered one of the satchels, and nodded at John, indicating he do the same. When he did, Sherlock announced, "I need you to take my hand, and whatever happens Upworlder– don't. Let. Go."

John's clammy fingers sought out Sherlock's hand, warm and slightly rough. He squeezed it once, a reassuring gesture; though he wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to reassure...

Sherlock smirked, and then with his free hand raised the skull up, high above their heads. His deep voice rang out, but John could not understand the tongue in which he spoke the words. He looked to Sherlock, whose whole being seemed to glow with a radiant light that grew brighter, and brighter– until there was only darkness.

_**~T.B.C.~ **_

_**The dream: is a reference to Richard, and how he constantly dreamed of the giant beast that roamed the Labyrinth; which was his destiny to slay. I wanted to add a bit of a creepy, nightmare element to John having a dream like that about the spider that controls the web. **_

_**Sherlock's Kimono: I just felt that a regular blue silk dressing gown would be too normal for the eclectic world of London Below. Remember, Male Kimono's are very different from female one's in Japan. **_

_**Afghanistan or Iraq?: Of course I'd have to add in such a quintessential Sherlock scene in some fashion. Sherlock has a fascination with London Above, and that's all I shall say on the matter for now, and so he knows some things about John's world. **_

_**All you need is love: Again, a glimpse into how the citizens Below get filtered snitbits from Above. I feel like Mrs. Hudson would love this song. **_

_**The Stew...: it had badger meat in it, don't ask how Mrs. Hudson got a hold of a badger. **_

_**Everything should be fairly explanitory. If not, just leave your questions in a PM or review. **_

_**Until next time lovelies, ta! **_


End file.
